


snake eyes

by deadlybride



Series: Milk Carton Kids [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Mild Gore, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Dean/Other(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7454353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>May 2—September 18, 2008. Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	snake eyes

**Author's Note:**

> The Milk Carton Kids - Live at Lincoln Theatre, track 9

_swing low, swing low_  
_for to carry me home_  
_in fire the skies of red_  
_my breath's gone cold_  
_a kiss from the coal_  
_a blanket of snow overhead_

In a vastness of green-black nothing the soul hangs suspended among chains. It’s screaming. Iron and smoke and sickness surround, girdle, invade. Hooks burrow into flesh, crack through bone. Everything is painful, poison, and yet the soul gasps for enough breath to shape the air into a name—the same name, over and over, even when its throat shreds and blood bubbles over its split, trembling lips.

The soul shakes and the chains wrap tighter, pull harder, separate muscle and bone. When the vocal cords are pushed too far screaming becomes impossible, and so the soul can do nothing but gasp for more of that cold poisoned air, burning caustic in its useless fragile lungs. A hook works its way into the bowels, spills acid and filth down the soul’s tattered side. Its mouth shapes a noiseless name. When the soul is ready to expire, when its heart is shuddering to a stop in its chest and its skin has stopped giving up its red righteous blood—that is when the smoke curls up close, bears the wet used construct of flesh upward and Alastair is there, waiting, as it is placed upon his worktable.

In a claustrophobic coffin of rust-red light, stained metal and chains, Alastair gleams like a knife. _Dean Winchester_ , the soul hears, and it seizes, arches hard against the table. Alastair puts a proprietary hand on its throat, on its groin, clever fingers twisting slick and bloody inside. A grin, self-satisfied smoke-black eyes. _Sweetheart, have I got a deal for you._

Slowly, the soul is made to remember. It is Dean Winchester. Hunter. Son. Hands surround him, pin him down, whip and flay his flesh, peel down to the bone, smoke poison into his blood and hold his beating heart before his streaming eyes.

Every second counts. Dean Winchester bleeds, and Alastair smiles at him with a wet palm held to what remains of his cheek, and there’s no escape. The mind cannot hide, here. There are no convenient rooms in which to lock oneself away, no doors to close between what is and what one wishes could be. Here is a soul, but also a body, and a body can be torn apart by hellhounds, can be raped by a hundred eager demons, can be quartered and dissolved and burned to ash. Every day, Alastair leans smiling over the soul’s new-built body and makes an offer. The soul spits blood, smiles back, says _go fuck yourself, you demon-bitch piece of shit_ , and then the torture starts again. Repetitive, but unforgettable.

Years grind along and there is no respite. No return to the anonymity of the chains, the poison and fear of the green-black air. Demons line up to take their turn. Hell expands, contracts. The screams of millions fill the lungs of the great beast and somewhere, deep, caged in bone and blood and celestial fury, a fractal arc of light turns up its great empty eyes, and waits—

Every year, every anniversary, is carved deep into the soul. Demons twist inside it, shred it apart, spill its guts onto the dirty ground. This is what’s important: the soul is Dean Winchester, and Dean Winchester is righteous. He is a hunter, a son. _A brother_ , Alastair says, mocking, and the soul that is Dean Winchester closes its bloody eyes, lets its clenched fists go lax, breathes in the terror-riddled air, and says: _yes._

In a flickering-black workshop, Dean Winchester holds a knife in his right hand. On a table before him is stretched the soul of a woman: wicked, deep inside herself where it counts. She’s weeping, terrified. Alastair’s hands bracket Dean Winchester’s hips, his smiling mouth bent to Dean Winchester’s ear. _What are you waiting for, sweetheart?_ He doesn’t know. He makes the first cut. High, at the inside of her elbow, where the nerves gather close and tight and tender, so it’ll hurt. He’s very familiar with the feeling. The blood spills forth, instantly, and drips glossily to the dark-stained floor. Hell exhales. There’s a flash of brilliant light, and Dean Winchester shields his eyes. _Keep going,_ he hears, and he does.

Later, there will be more light, illuminating his filth, his bladed hands. His mouth will shape a name, but it will be too late.


End file.
